Afterimage
by Animiga
Summary: Formerly a one-shot. Post Embracable You...What happened after the ring? And how much do those little morments in time change a person? Will be angsty JW. Now Complete.
1. Afterimage

This story was originally a one shot, but then the evil little plot bunnies started hopping away, and so I felt I had to make it longer. I hope you enjoy. Please, pretty please R&R.

WARNING: This fic does contain speculation based on spoilers.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of Crossing Jordan. This fic is purely a creation of my own weird brain; I'm just playing with the characters Tim Kring and Co. have created and own.

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**Chapter 1: Afterimage**

It sat in the top drawer of his bedside table, still inside the two boxes it had been wrapped in that day.

Some days, he forgot all about it. Those were the busy days. The ones where he was running down leads, doing interviews and making phone calls all day. The ones where he didn't get home until late at night, and all he had time to do was eat whatever take-out he'd picked up on the way home and then drop down on his bed, exhausted.

And then there were days like today. His leads would wrap up early, the suspects would crack. The paperwork went faster than normal. Days like these were great. It meant that he'd actually get off work on time. He'd be able to go down to the bar with some of his buddies from the precinct or go catch a Red Sox game if they were in town. He used to love days like these. But for his first time in three years in Boston, he actually hated days like today.

Ever since Cal had made his appearance, he felt disconnected. The solid little world he had built here had started to crumble. Sure, it felt like Jordan had shored up the falling walls for a time, but just one week later… his world dropped.

He tried to make it all business, tried to limit their conversation to whatever cases they were working on at the time. He tried to stand away from her. That didn't work either. It was if his body was drawn to her, wanting to feel her presence and protect her from… whatever it was she needed protecting from. And he hated himself for that.

Which is why he now hated days like today. He was done early, leaving the precinct just as the next shift was coming in. In the past, he would have gone over to O'Malley's, had a drink, and watched the Sox on TV. Or he would have gone over to the morgue or the crime lab, and watched whoever was on the night shift work in trace and talk about the newest law enforcement technologies. But that didn't feel right anymore. He may not be able to avoid her when the worked together, or when the situation called for them to watch out for each other, but he could damn well limit what contact he could control.

When he had first made that decision, on the days where he wasn't working late, he'd find himself at home, doing absolutely nothing. There were only so many times a man could clean the house, balance his checkbook and then channel flip for four hours. After the fourth night of that, something happened. He found himself drawn to the small box that sat in the top drawer of his bedside table. He had taken it out and stared at the tiny bejeweled object. He hadn't been able to bring himself to take it back. The light from the bedroom lamp glinted off one of the small jewels. He really had just meant it as a friend. He had wanted to show Jordan that he was still there, that he wasn't going anywhere. He had wanted her to _see _him, and stop looking at her own life for a while. That there was more to life than what she had been living.

Be it hadn't been enough. _He_ hadn't been enough. He put the ring back in its boxes. She was still trapped in her emotion-blocking walls. She had rejected him, and it had burned. He put the ring back in the box. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times…well… it was even more his fault this time. Apparently, he didn't know how to handle Jordan Cavanaugh. The third time hadn't been a charm for him. In his anger, he threw the box across the room. But the padding had protected the ring, and when he retrieved it ten minutes later, it had still been in perfect condition. He put the ring back in the drawer. For some reason, he still didn't want to let go of it.

He hadn't opened the box since. In fact, he hadn't opened the drawer since. He'd made do without the other trinkets in the drawer. Which included his rosary and his mother's bible.

And he'd come to avoiding his own apartment. He saw enough of Jordan during the day, that he'd unconsciously found himself avoiding places that reminded him of her. Bars, coffee shops, his own home. The one place he'd found that didn't remind him of her was the gym at the precinct. It was in a part of the building – downstairs and in the back – where Jordan never had cause to go. And so now, it was where he spent most of his free time. He'd work himself into exhaustion, to the point where he barely managed get something to eat and then himself home, where he'd fall asleep almost instantly. He'd lift weights in rhythm with whatever rock music was pounding on the stereo. He'd practice moves with some of the other members of the force. He'd run for miles on the treadmill, climb the ropes, or beat the tar out of one of the three punching bags, like he was doing now. Whatever it took to make his mind clear and focus on the task at hand. Now between work and his workouts, he was running himself ragged.

But at least he wasn't thinking of her.


	2. The Real Image

I was going to wait until after the next two episodes to post this...but popular demand and my own nagging brain wouldn't let me.

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* * *

Every time she saw a small, bright twinkle of light, she thought of the ring. 

For the first day or so after 'it' happened, she didn't have time to think about what had happened. She had been so busy wrapping up the details and paperwork – she had gotten her desk clean the day before, and wasn't about to let anything even _start_ to pile up – that she had left both incidents suspended. Both incidents… the first on the morning they'd started the case, and second on the evening they solved the case… both encounters haunted her. It seemed that every time she wasn't fully concentrating on something, any chance her mind had to wander, she re-lived those moments. And every time, she berated herself for not being fast enough.

That's what their whole relationship had been. Slow. She'd known some people who had met, dated, had sex, got married and had children in the same amount of time she'd known Woody. Jordan had always known she'd never be one of those people. She'd known it since she was a little girl that her mother's murder and her father's subsequent, though subtle, withdrawal would make it hard for her to trust anyone. And so she'd only gotten close enough where she could have comfortable camaraderie. If anyone tried to get closer, she'd push them back with the standard "I'm not ready for that level of intimacy" line. Her good friends – Lily, Bug, Nigel, Garret, a few others – had stayed at the friendship level, and had never tried to push her further. And she loved them for that.

Woody on the other hand… He'd been the only one who'd ever expressed interest in her as a woman, then – when she'd shot him down – settled into the friendship area. They'd never talked about it per se, but she got the impression that he'd always want to be her friend, regardless of if it ever went further. But they'd circled around each other for years, ever since she first met him and commented on that stupid, ugly tie. It was only after that night, the night he gave up, that she realized why.

She had never given him a definitive answer. She'd never made a decision.

For years, he had played the roles of friend and confidant and potential lover, but she'd never categorized him as any of those things. And it was, she knew now, because she was never quite sure how she felt about him. He wasn't really her type. She had always involved herself with tough, A-type personality men, usually ones who were her own age or older. And here was Woodrow Hoyt, a good-hearted, accommodating man, who, although only two years her junior, looked younger than his own age. He definitely wasn't her type. But every time she was around him, his good nature and understanding (even when he was mad!) had chipped away at her and she quickly realized how easily she _could_ fall for him. And she really didn't want to. Men like that were the ones who took care of those they loved, but they were also the ones who demanded commitment and true partnership. It was much easier to get involved with the men who were more "my way or the highway." With men like that, it was easy to break up and separate when the going got tough.

But then, like the old saying, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Something about that night, that case, Nigel's words, the recollection of how he had turned to her for comfort when he found out that his brother was pawn for the Albanian mob, had made her want to step up to the plate. Had made her want to jump out of the plane and hope to God that her parachute deployed.

But she had waited too long. She had inadvertently crushed the hopes of the most patient man she had ever known. That night, he had thrown her own words back at her. "We're better off as friends." She couldn't help but remember how many times she had said that to him. And then when she'd asked him if he really believed they'd really kill each other within a week of hooking up… She'd always remember the tone of his voice, his expression as he valiantly tried to convince both her and himself that he was fine… "No," he had said. "But if I keep telling myself that…"

She envied him sometimes… being able to show his emotions so easily. She knew he didn't like that part of himself, and that it made his job more difficult, but that simple trait had managed to endear him to her. She always knew what he was feeling, what he meant. There was no hiding, no deception, and no way to hurt her that way.

Too bad she was just realizing how rare that was. And too bad she never felt it anymore. In the nearly two months since the case with the pregnant nun, the number of times she'd seen him had plummeted. Sure, she still saw him in the field, as the precinct, in the morgue. But it was always business. He' still put his hand on the small of her back when escorting her into a room, or grasp her hand to pull her to safety, but it felt different. She wanted to say it felt colder, but something inside her always warmer when he was around. But the number of times they'd been in each other's presence had diminished, and – maybe it was psychosomatic – she'd found herself wearing long pants and long sleeved tops, even though the weather was getting warmer. There was no more hanging out in the morgue imaging the grandiose crimes that the boring evidence could point to. No more going out for chimichangas for lunch together. No more stealing his coffee in the morning. She missed it. She missed him. There had been a couple times she had actively looked for him. She'd stopped by his preferred coffee shop in the mornings, hoping to run into him; she'd stopped by his office after work a couple times, hoping to find him working hard on a case and getting upset with her 'interfering.' But he was always gone.

Now it almost felt like her life didn't fit anymore. It wasn't comfortable to wear. All she had wanted was a comfortable relationship, and she had found herself waiting for just the right fit. But it turned out that some things just needed a little stretching, just needed to be worn once or twice before they fit perfectly and forever. She knew that now, and it was a hard lesson.

One learned from a simple silver ring.


	3. Silhouette

**Chapter 3: Silhouette**

It had been seven weeks since the ring happened. Life continued on at both the morgue and the precinct. People died, people were killed. The morgue did autopsies and collected evidence. The police investigated and evaluated evidence, made arrests. Professional life went on as normal.

Personal life, on the other hand, had been turned inside out. Jordan and Woody carried on professional, courteous conversations. Everyone noticed. It was almost always a variation of the same.

"Hey, Jordan, can you give me a cause of death? Murder weapon, maybe?"

"Well, no obvious external cause of death. I haven't opened the body up yet, but based on the liver temp at the scene, I'd put time of death at about eight hours ago."

"Anything interesting on the body itself?"

"No, no prints or anything, but I'm waiting on some hairs I found on her hands. Plus, based on lividity, and the position of the body at the scene… Unless one of your guys moved her before we got there, I'd say she wasn't killed where you found her."

"Oh joy. That pretty much rules out accidental death or suicide. Well, let me know when you get anything. We've got basically nothing right now, and we're hoping she can tell us something. Oh, by the way. Have you determined c.o.d. on the bouncer from the bar?"

"Knife wound to the spleen. The guy was high on PCP, so he didn't even feel a thing as he bled out internally."

"Chalk another one up to drugs. Great. Thanks, Jordan. I'll see you around."

And so it went. Life was just static, just kind of happening. Everyone around them had noticed the change. But no one said anything, to afraid to upset the balance or be the cause of a permanent falling out between the two. Even Jordan herself was tentative around the detective from Wisconsin.

Garret would watch Jordan and Woody together, every time wondering what had happened. Neither Nigel nor Jordan had told him about the ring, so, like everyone else, he was left to wonder what had happened to their relationship. The two worked as well together as they ever had. But there was no banter, no teasing, no easy arguments. He tried to pinpoint the day everything changed, try to figure out what happened. He got as far as the case with the pregnant nun, but no further.

But Jordan and Woody both knew the exact day. Their entire relationship had been defined by and directed by days. The day they met, the day they kissed in the dessert but then decided to stay friends, the days in L.A. after he gave up his Kinks ticket, the day Cal put her in danger, and the day Woody tried to give her the ring.

Nobody knew it yet, but fate had one more pivotal day. May 26, 2005.


	4. Form

**Chapter 4: Form**

The two weeks in the middle of May were tense ones for both the precinct and the morgue. A series of bank robberies had struck the downtown Boston area. The robberies as such weren't unusual in themselves. Robberies were accepted fact in police precincts in large cities around the world. It was the fact that there had been four in the past two weeks. And at each one, the robbers had lingered long enough for law enforcement to show up. A showdown occurred each time. Then, just as things started resolve, shots rang out, and not from the police officers. It happened so quickly, and the sniper was so well hidden that there was no time to return fire. At the first robbery, two officers had been killed, and two wounded. At the second, three had been killed. The third: one dead and three wounded. And the fourth, fortunately, no deaths, but four had been wounded, one in critical condition. And there was no one to hold accountable. In all four instances, the chaos caused by the injured officers had allowed the bank robbers to escape.

After the second robbery, the homicide division became officially involved. Woody and Santana hand been assigned the case, and they were working together with the crime sergeant and his team. Pressure had been put on both the morgue and the crime lab to determine the angle of entry and the type of bullets used. So much pressure, in fact, that Garret now spent his days merely reviewing the evidence and answering the questions of the press and the D.A. Jordan had done the autopsies, and, with Nigel and Bug's help, determined that high caliber bullets had been used, and the shooter was likely on the second floor of a building not more than 100 feet from the scene.

Nigel, with his extensive – and probably not all book-learned – knowledge of ballistics had managed to identify the striations on the bullet, comparing them to typical striations of certain models, as well as the type of gunpowder used. Woody and Santana had used that information to question local gun manufacturers and retailers. Knowing the case involved the killing of cops, Woody was more determined than ever. By the third robbery, he had reported to the scene almost as soon as it was called in. One of the officers killed that day had been a friend of his, one of his workout partners, who still worked the streets as a beat cop. At the fourth scene, he had responded to the call early, and the critically injured officer was a woman who was part of the crime squad that was investigating the robberies. A woman who was married and had a four-year-old son. So now, it was even more personal.

Jordan knew that he and some of the other detectives spent most of their time at the morgue, waiting for the ballistics and autopsy results. They set up shop and made their calls from the conference room. A board had been set up, full of crime photos and scribbled notes, analyzing the scene and the events. The choice of location for their 'headquarters' was logical in another way: the press had virtually set up camp outside the precinct. And having been on TV at the press conferences, Woody and his team was readily recognizable. They couldn't go into the building without creating a clamor. So they spent their days here, whenever they weren't running down leads. And so Jordan knew he didn't go home often. If he did, it was only to pick up a change of clothes or two and take a shower.

They were all stressed and running on very little sleep, all hoping to day would be the day that they solved the case, but no one felt any particular apprehension when May 26 dawned. It started like all the others. Woody and his team were in the conference room, discussing any changes or new leads since they all last met 12 hours ago. Garret and Walcott were reviewing press inquiries. As for Jordan, Nigel, Bug and Lily, they had their own hands full processing the evidence for the case as well as keeping the day-to-day morgue operations going. People were still dying in other ways, other crimes were being committed.

It was just after 2:00 when the call came in. Jordan was in her office, filling out the death certificate for a man who had collapsed in and been found in the bathroom of his office. The man had died of a heart attack. And at precisely 2:09, Nigel knocked at her open doorway, drawing her attention.

"Jordan?"

"Yeah? What's up, Nige?"

"There's been another robbery." He didn't have to say more.

Jordan felt her heart lurch. Woody wasn't in the office right now. Hadn't been for the last three hours. She knew because there was a window between her office and the conference room next door, and quick glance confirmed her knowledge. For Jordan, it was both pain and pleasure having Woody so close. Physically, he was near, and she always felt relieved to be able to look at him, to know he was safe. But he had been stressed these last two weeks, even more distant than he had in the seven weeks before. Her heart ached for him, knowing that, even though they weren't close like they were before, he wasn't happy, wasn't healthy. "Woody?" she asked Nigel quietly.

"He's fine," he said on a breath. "Already down at the crime scene, I'd wager. And they wouldn't be calling us in unless the scene was safe… But we've got another body. One of the patrol officers who responded to the call was killed. Walcott's already got wind of it, and she wants you and me to head out."

Jordan nodded, saddened by the news of another officer killed in the line of duty. Having grown up around cops, working so closely with them, loving one – she admitted that to herself now – knowing another had been killed in the line of duty wrenched her heart. Adding her signature to the form she had been filling out, she grabbed her coat. "Come on, let's go. I'll drop this off with Lily on my way out. Why don't you go get the van."


	5. Picture

**Chapter 5: Picture**

When Jordan and Nigel reached the scene, flashing blue and red lights were still going strong. Yellow crime scene tape had been distributed, easily cordoning off a two block radius. Despite the fact that they rode in the clearly marked morgue van, they both had to show their badges and ID before the officers removed the barricades and let them into the scene. They grabbed their bags and the gurney and rolled it over to the body.

Over to her left, she saw Woody, notebook and pen in hand, interviewing two men in suits – most likely people who had been in the bank at the time – before handing them his card and directing them away from the scene. Then he went over to talk with a man wearing a BPD windbreaker. Woody was wearing one as well. He had forgone suits this past week or so. As they walked away, she could see that both men, actually, most of the officers whom she saw in the area, were wearing bullet proof vests. For two seconds, for the umpteenth time in her life, Jordan sent a silent thank you to whoever developed Kevlar.

She turned her attention to Nigel and the body, snapping her gloves up over her wrist, covering her watch. The dead officer was in his street uniform, and a large area of blood pooling around his head and right shoulder. Turning the head and looking for the entry and exit wound, she heard the shutter of the camera as Nigel took pictures.

"Poor bloke. Looks like he didn't feel anything, though. No signs of movement after the fact."

Jordan nodded. "Yeah, I'd say it went in on the back side of his head here, and then came out his neck here, severing the artery in the neck. He was dead before he even hit the ground."

"Which means that we need to look for the bullet."

Jordan was rising to her feet to do just that when more shots rang out. She heard the officers shouting and felt a large body slam into her, driving her into the patrol car behind her. Regaining her balance, she looked up to see Nigel rolling off her and into the shelter of the patrol car.

"What they hell -?"

"Someone's firing at us, looks like the scene's not so secure after all! Stay down," he admonished, putting a hand on her shoulder as she tried to get up to look around. "What the hell are you doing!"

"Woody's still out there!"

"I know, love, but he's a cop. Let him do his job. Besides, he's got the added benefit of a Kevlar vest. Something _we_ don't have. So just sit tight and wait for the all clear."

Jordan did so, primarily because instinct had her ducking as another few rounds punched through the metal of the cars around them. When there was a pause in the gunfire, she managed to look over the hood before Nigel pulled her back down. But what she saw in those few seconds terrified her. She managed to see Woody, gesturing, shouting orders and holding his own gun at the ready. On the sleeve of his beige t-shirt, she saw a familiar spreading red stain. He looked over in her direction at just that moment, and his eyes widened.

After Nigel pulled her back down, she whirled on him. "Woody's hurt. I think he's been shot in the arm."

"Is he still standing?"

"What?"

"If he's standing, it's not bad. Let him finish his job. _Wait for the all clear_!"

Frustrated, she did as he asked. She felt the secure grip of his hand on her shoulder. She knew he was right, but just as instinct had her ducking behind the car as bullets flew, it also had her rushing out to Woody, making sure he was okay. She heard shouts, a few more shots, the thud of bodies striking each other and the ground. Finally, she heard the radio of a nearby officer crackle.

"All clear, all suspects in custody."

She started to breathe a sigh of relief, but a second message came almost on top of the first that made her heart leap into her throat.

"Officer down! Get the medics over here. We're going to need two rigs!"

Jordan glanced at Nigel, who shared her worried look, then took off from behind the car. She ran hard for the place where she had last seen Woody, praying the whole time that it wasn't him that was down. He was wearing his Kevlar, right? But her fears were realized as she approached the crowd of officers. On the ground, she could already recognize the familiar beige shirt and blue jeans. She heard the protests as she pushed her way through the crowd to his side. One officer was already on the ground, cutting the vest off at the shoulder. A red stain was already spreading on his abdomen, where, on a tall man like Woody, the vest ended. She reached out to staunch the bleeding with her hands, but suddenly Nigel was there, already pushing his coat onto the wound. Jordan looked back up to Woody's face. This wasn't good. He wasn't reacting to the pressure Nigel was applying. She tilted his head back and bent her ear to his mouth. Feeling for a pulse. Oh, God. He wasn't breathing. And the pulse was fast. Too fast. And then it wasn't there at all.

Almost instantly, her training kicked in, what she had learned when she still worked on live people. She pinched his nose and gave him to breaths, forcing herself to make them slow and full. Her body lurched sideways, reaching out for his chest, where she pumped down hard with the heels of her hand. One-and-two-and-three-and… On the second compression, she heard a crack, and almost stopped. Almost. A cracked rib wasn't uncommon when CPR was done right. Oh, God, she was doing CPR on the man she loved. Please, God, she prayed. Let him live. Please, please.

She repeated the process over and over, for what felt like centuries. Finally, she felt herself pulled away, and realized that it was Nigel. The paramedics, who had already been on the scene as a mater of routine, were here and had taken over. An ambu bag went over his face, and scissors quickly cut away his shirt. One medic used his knee to put pressure on the wound as he attached the wires and pads of an Automated External Defibrillator. She heard one medic shout, "Arrhythmia, shock advised. Clear!" and watched helplessly as his body jerked when electricity surged through his body.

Nigel pulled her tight against him, and she buried her face into his chest, finally feeling the tears coursing down her cheeks, still praying harder than she ever had in her life.

Please, God. Let him live. I need him so much. Please. Let. Him. Live.


	6. Rewind

**Chapter 6: Rewind**

Jordan sat in the padded green chair in the hospital waiting room, biting at the fingernails of her right hand, left leg twitching. Nigel sat on one side, Garret the other. Bug and Lily had wanted to come too, but someone needed to stay at the morgue to help the family of the fallen officer. Detective Santana stood, pacing the length of the room. Having just arrived, she had not been there long enough for the room to sap her strength. In the chair across the room, Jordan recognized an older man as Woody's captain. A few other officers shuffled around the room as well. And save for the occasional quiet murmuring, the room was silent.

Unable to bear sitting any longer, Jordan stood and walked over to the doorway, looking out through the window at the happenings on the surgical ward of Boston University Medical Center. "Why haven't they told us anything? It's been almost three hours."

"That's probably a good thing, Jordan," Garret said. "It means they're working hard and he's got a good chance." Garret didn't know if that was exactly true, but it made sense, and he hoped it would appease Jordan. Calm her a bit.

It didn't quite work. She turned away from the window, arms wrapped around herself. "Well, couldn't they send, I don't know, a liaison or something? Give us an update at least."

Garret gave Nigel a quick glance before going to her side, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Jordan, I know it's not easy, but we've just got to wait."

Unexpectedly, she turned into him, crying into his shoulder. "You didn't see him, Garret. There was so much blood, and he wasn't breathing…"

It took a few more minutes for Jordan to calm down. Garret let her cry, knowing that, if nothing else, it would drain some of her nervous energy. When she was finished, he handed her a tissue from a nearby box and lead her back to a chair, where she sat down heavily. Garret looked away from Jordan. Though he knew the cause – Jordan was clearly in love with Woody – it still unnerved him to see the usually strong Jordan sitting in a chair, hugging her knees to her chest, tears still trailing down her cheeks. His gaze settled on Woody's commanding officer, Captain Ray Thatcher. "What happened out there? I thought the scene was secure."

Thatcher took his cap off with one hand and rubbed the top of his head before replacing his cap. It was easy to see the toll the last couple of weeks had taken on the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his face seemed pale, sallow. "I'm still not sure what the hell happened out there. Reports are still coming in. Lieutenant Mansky is coordinating, and he's been updating me every 20 minutes. From what I've been told, the scene _was _secure." He shrugged. "Then Hoyt had half a dozen officers go off across the street, and all hell broke loose."

Santana stopped pacing. "He knew where they were, sir."

The Captain, and everyone else in the room, turned to her.

She rubbed the back of her neck, a move reminiscent of Thatcher's actions only moments before. "As far as most of the team was concerned, and every one else there, actually, the scene was secure. Everything was playing out just like the other robberies. The shooting had stopped more than ten minutes earlier. The hostages were coming out, the suspects were long gone. We were trying to take care of the wounded." She chuckled softly. "Which, uh, actually included Hoyt. Idiot got a graze to the arm but refused to get treatment until everyone else got it."

Nigel squeezed Jordan's arm gently. "Sound just like him, eh?" He was rewarded with a tiny smile.

"We already had the evidence team processing the scene. Someone had called in the coroner for, uh, for Officer Johnson. But see, on the way over, Woody, er, Hoyt, had this idea that the perps never really left the scene.

Garret's eyebrow quirked. "I don't follow. The police searched the areas high and low, checked all the banks' cameras."

"Yeah," Nigel chimed. "I mean, the whole point of getting away with a crime is exactly that. To get away."

"Yeah, I know, that's what I said. But Hoyt calls back to the A/V team. See, we were pretty sure that the sniper and the get away driver were one and the same, and he was firing from nearby parking structures. There was one within 200 feet, all with a clear line of sight, of each location. Hoyt's theory was that the perps never left the area, but circled it. He said if he were them, he'd want to see the damage for himself.

"By the time we get there, the shooting has stopped completely. Woody wanted to go over to the parking garage, but I didn't think it would do any good. I mean, if he was right, they wouldn't be there anymore anyway. So we start doing the usual, interviewing the vics, etc."

"I saw that part." Jordan's voice made everyone jump. Apparently, finally having some details seemed to shake her out of her temporary stupor. "What happened then? Why did it all go to hell?"

Luisa Santana met Jordan's eyes, and for a moment, understood. She didn't know quite what… why Woody was so enamored with the woman, maybe….or maybe she was finally understanding Jordan's feelings for Woody, maybe something else entirely… but she understood. She felt her voice and features soften when she spoke next. "Woody got a call from the A/V guys. I talked to them, afterwards, before I came here. They told me that they had already been looking at the tapes, and when Woody pointed out what might be there, they found it. A blue, totally non descript, Honda Civic. They said it was circling the area, had several people inside – unusual for downtown Boston in the middle of the day, on weekdays at least. And that they back tags were missing. All the sudden, it was like both of us went on full alert." She paused, remembering, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. "The big doofus, probably only because he's taller, saw them first. They were across the street in one of the metered parking spots. As soon as we got close, they panicked, got out of the car and ran. They managed to get off a few rounds, but we chased them down before they got too far." Santana took a deep breath. "How're the others? There were three, right?"

Captain Thatcher nodded. "Officer Miller, Officer Daly and Sergeant Fuentes. I've already spoken with their families and doctors. All of them are superficial. Daly's going to have to spend the night, but other than that… Well, all three of them will be fine."

"I'm glad to hear that," Santana said. She sent a quick look to Jordan. "We got all of them. They're all sitting in lockup, and every cop in the city wants a piece of them."

"There not the only ones," Jordan muttered.Chapter Manager

Garret thought about trying to ease her off that idea, but was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor...


	7. Development

**AN: **Thanks to those who reviewed! And to those who read but don't, I hope you're enjoying the story! Sorry for leaving everyone hanging, but life got, well, complicated. But, here's the next chapter. Also, I hope to finish this before the season finale on Sunday…

**AN2: ** While I did do some research into medical matters, hoping to at least '_sound_' like I know what I'm talking about, any mistakes are purely my own and/or done with dramatic liscence.

**Chapter 7: Development**

Dr. Sandra Reece tossed her mask and gown into the biohazard disposal bin and stretched her back before heading away from the operating room and to the waiting room. She was always happy when she could give good news to her patients' families. And she was sad when she had to give bad news. Today, she had a little bit of both for the family of Detective Hoyt.

She was still working the kinks out of her body as she walked down the hall. This surgery was her last of the day, and thankfully, it had been comparatively short – only 3 ½ hours. But she had been in the operating room for most of the day, and her body was protesting. But it wasn't only her body that was protesting. The mound of paperwork that would invariably come had her groaning as well. Especially on Detective Hoyt. High profile patients were never fun. Every move was scrutinized. It's not that the patient care was compromised, but it always felt like every video camera in the hospital was in the OR, and every administrator in the hospital was trying to page her for an update. Finally, she reached the waiting room and stepped inside.

"The family of Detective Woodrow Hoyt?" she asked.

It seemed like the entire room stood and converged on her. She took a step back. She noticed that most of them either wore a uniform or had badges clipped to their belt or around the neck. Likely his buddies from the force. No one old enough to be the patient's parents. There were only two women in the roomful of men. One was short, wore a badge around her neck and a BPD windbreaker. The other woman didn't look like a cop, though she wore a badge. She was taller, also slight, and looked pale and drawn, blood stained her sleeves and the knees of her pants. Her wavy brown hair was messily clipped up onto her head, though it threatened to fall as she approached. Sandra sighed. "Is there anyone here who is part of Detective Hoyt's immediate family?"

The man whose uniform proclaimed him to be the police Captain spoke up. "Detective Hoyt doesn't have any family in the area."

Sandra turned to the nurse who had entered behind her with the patient's chart. "Have we been able to contact his family?"

It was the smaller woman who answered. "Woody's parents are dead. He's got a brother in Wisconsin, though. I hear they're not on the best of terms right now, but we've been trying to get in contact with him. No luck so far."

Sandra sighed. She had a roomful of people who wanted information. And legally, she couldn't talk to any of them. She looked down at the chart, at the medical records that had been faxed over from the personnel department at the Boston Police Department. Scanning through, she found the section of the form that had become too familiar over the last two weeks: Emergency Contact. "Well, then, do any of you know a Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh?"

The tall woman's head lifted. "That's me."

"Dr. _Jordan_ Cavanaugh?"

She nodded, and removed the badge that was clipped to her belt. Flipping it open, she revealed the card that identified her as a coroner working for the city of Boston. Interesting. Her patient and this woman obviously weren't related. Didn't look like they were engaged, either. No ring. But she was obviously a close friend, otherwise the detective wouldn't have listed her as an emergency contact on the forms that officers were required to update every year. "You've been listed as an emergency contact for him. If you like, I can take you to a smaller room, where we can talk privately."

She hadn't wanted to, preferring to stay with the large group. But eventually, the two men she was with, who identified themselves as friends of both the woman and the patient and employees of the morgue, encouraged her to do so. One or both of them must have realized that when a doctor asks a question like that, it was usually news that needed explaining, and was easier to do with just one person, who could then pass on only the necessary information. Eventually, it was Dr. Cavanaugh, the two men (whom she now knew to be Doctors Macy and Townsend) and the man's partner, Detective Santana, who went to a smaller, private room.

Once they had all been settled, Dr. Reece began her explanation. "Dr. Cavanaugh -"

"Jordan. Please, call me Jordan."

Sandra smiled slightly at the familiar efforts of a patient's family to make a tough situation easier. "Fine. Jordan. Detective Hoyt was shot twice. Once in the lower part of his upper arm, about here." She indicated on her own arm. The bullet went clean through, managed to miss the bone, the nerves _and _major blood vessels. Very lucky. There was some tearing in the muscle tissue itself, but we've made the necessary repairs and stitched the wounds closed.

"The big concern though, I'm sure you're aware, is the gunshot wound to the abdomen. I understand it was you who was first on scene?" Sandra spoke gently to Dr. Cavanaugh.

She nodded. "Yeah. Nigel and I. We were both there. There was so much blood…" Sandra couldn't help but notice how Jordan's hands absently trailed along the dried blood on her clothing.

Sandra momentarily flashed back to her first encounter with Detective Hoyt, almost four hours ago. Though he had been stabilized in the ER, and given several IV bags of saline and blood to replace his lost blood volume, the he had still been bleeding profusely.

"I know. In all, he lost more than half his blood volume, most of it at the scene. That's what caused his heart to stop. There was almost nothing left to pump, so his heart went into a state of overdrive, trying to get as much blood as it could to the brain."

"The tachycardia," Jordan said.

Sandra had forgotten that three of the others in the room were medical doctors. "Exactly. The heart couldn't sustain itself, and it went into an irregular rhythm. The shock from the defibrillator and the fluids he was given by the paramedics helped resolve that. Because he got help so quickly – partly from you, I understand – there shouldn't be any long-term damage, at least not from a cardiologic or neurological standpoint."

"Thank God."

"You're telling us the good news. What else?" Dr. Macy asked. Sandra glanced from Jordan to him. The man seemed to recognize the uneven address and tone of a clinician delivering news.

Sandra took a breath. "A high powered bullet, a 'cop killer' bullet, entered here, at his waist, on his left side. It lacerated his kidney, went through his stomach, through the liver, through the diaphragm, lacerated a part of the lung and went out his back, on his right side."

"Oh, God." Jordan closed her eyes. Dr. Reece had just named four of the body's major organs.

Sandra watched the woman start to shake, and reach out for her friends' hands, anything to steady herself. Being a doctor, she obviously knew what kind of damage had been done. But given the situation, Sandra knew she still had to explain it. "By then the bullet had lost enough speed that it lodged in the back side of his Kevlar vest. Somehow, it managed to miss the ribcage on the way out, so the only broken rib was the one cracked during CPR, but there was plenty of damage. Fortunately, the bullet completely missed the spleen, which is something we were worried about at first. We're also fortunate that he's young and very healthy; the surgery went well. There were two surgeons, Dr. Benson and myself. We repaired the lacerations, but because the contents of the stomach went into the abdomen, there's a strong possibility of infection. We had to remove a section of his liver, but the liver can regenerate itself, as you know, and can return to its normal size in about two weeks. His right lung collapsed, both from its own injury and the fluids from the abdomen, which leaked through the hole in the diaphragm. We repaired the hole in the diaphragm, inserted a chest tube, but had to remove a small portion of his right lung. As a doctor, I know you're wondering why the surgery was so short for such extensive injuries. The high powered bullet simply went straight though. There wasn't a lot of secondary damage, so the surgery was mostly about patching up the damage rather than restructuring the internal systems.

"Now, I know all these injuries seem daunting, and they are very serious. He's in critical condition since there's a very high risk for infection right now, and his body's already weak from the trauma. We're going to keep a very close eye on him in the ICU for the next couple days, and if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours with out any complications, his chances will be much better. Do you have any questions?"

Jordan shook her head. Sandra felt for the woman. She obviously cared about the man deeply. Her color hadn't gotten any better in the last few minutes either. "Can I have someone get you something else to wear? Some scrubs maybe?"

Jordan looked down at her clothes and, if possible, her skin became even paler. "Oh jeez. I didn't, I didn't even realize… It's his… his…"

"Easy, Jo," Nigel said.

"Take deep breaths," Garret added.

"They're right. Take some breaths. In. Out." Unconsciously, Sandra's hand had reached out, feeling for Jordan's pulse. "I don't want to have another patient here."

A few moments later, Jordan looked back up at the doctor, much calmer and breathing normally again. "I'm okay… Can I see him?" she asked tentatively.

Sandra took a breath and studied Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh for a few moments. As a surgeon, she knew that the more sterile the environment, the better her patients chances were. At least empirically. But as a mother, and a wife whose husband had been in the ICU three years ago in a car accident, she knew that the presence of a loved one (whatever type of love these two showed) was comforting, both to the visitor and the patient, even if the later was unconscious.

"Okay," she said after a few moments more. "But first, let's get you cleaned up." Sandra saw Jordan squash an impulse to object. "And get you a snack and something to drink. Then you can see him."

Fifteen minutes later, trussed up in protective gear, Jordan was at Woody's bedside.


	8. Revelations, Part I

**Chapter 8: Revelations, Part I**

When Woodrow Hoyt woke up, he wasn't happy. He felt like crap.

His mind woke up first, slowly becoming aware of his own body and some of the things he could sense around him. He didn't like how he felt. What the hell had he done last night, he wondered, that made him feel like this? The last time he had binged on alcohol was more than two months ago. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, so he had purposely avoided situations where he might be tempted to do so. So if not a hangover that was making his head fuzzy and his body throb, what? It certainly wasn't his workouts. Even if he had been busy these last two weeks on the robber-cop killer case, when his mind got too cluttered with facts, he had managed to get the precinct gym – going in the back way to avoid the media – a handful of times. The exercise had not only soothed his body's pent up energy, but it had helped him focus, getting him away from both the case and the whiskey eyed coroner whose office was right next to the conference room that had become his team's headquarters. Jordan… something having to do with her was nagging at him, but the worry that was starting to build fled his mind as, when he tried roll over, pain shot across his abdomen and chest. For all that was holy! What the hell had he done to make his body feel like this? Okay, okay. It hadn't been the gym… but he had been in the gym earlier that morning when he came up with the idea that the killers had been circling the scenes of the crime, getting their jollies from watching the police scurry around. He had also been in the gym when the call came in that there was another robbery/shooting in progress.

The robbery. Maybe something had happened there. Images flashed across his memory. Getting out of the car at the scene, the shooting having already stopped. Jordan. Interviewing the bank manager. The shooting starting again. Jordan. He had gotten a call from the A/V team. He had been right. A blue Honda civic had been captured on surrounding security cameras at all of the other robberies. Almost instantly seeing the car. Running toward it, shouting at them to get out of the car. Jordan. Four young men running, guns firing. Pain. Jordan. Jordan running to him. Jordan. Jordan.

"Jordan!" His eyes finally flew open as the name escaped his lips, though it sounded more like a hoarse gasp to his ears. He tried to say her name again, but nearly choked as his dry throat rebelled.

Almost instantly, someone in colored scrubs was at his side. "There you are, Detective," she said brightly, but quietly, putting a hand on his chest to calm him. "Take it easy now, sugar. Here, let me get you some ice chips."

She placed a couple chips in his mouth, and almost instantly, he felt the blessed coolness spread through his mouth and down his throat. He tried again. "Jordan? Where Jordan?" he asked quietly.

"Jordan," the nurse repeated, understanding him now. "One of the other nurses, Tara, went to get her. She's been by your side as much as we let her, poor thing."

Woody started to panic. What had happened to Jordan?

The nurse saw his expression as she checked and adjusted his IV. "Oh, she's fine, sugar. I'm sorry I got you all scared there. I just said that because she's been wearing herself thin these past few days watching over you. Fact is, I don't think she's been home but once since, and even then it was only for a few hours. Those friends of hers wanted her to get some good sleep, in a real bed. But she came back early next morning. Told me she couldn't sleep. Poor thing. A few hours ago, we managed to find her a place to sleep inside the hospital. Had to promise we'd get her immediately if something happened, though. So Tara's gone to get her. I'm Norma, by the way."

While the nurse had happily chatted away, Woody had finally managed to wake himself up. Somewhat. At least the fog had lifted, and he could recognize that he was in a hospital. Probably the intensive care unit, since the nurses station was in clear sight… and the fact that there seemed to be more machines around him than there were in all of trace. Remembering the case, and the fact that he was a cop, pretty much told him why he was here. "I…was shot," he mumbled. "How long?"

Norma looked up at him from where she was making notes on his chart. "It's going on 10 o'clock now, Monday night. So it's been about four days. You had to have emergency surgery. There was a lot of damage, but Dr. Reece did a right nice job of patching you up. You gave us a bit of a scare those first few days, though. Developed a post-op infection. Dr. Reece had to go in and drain it and we had to put you on a ventilator. Probably why your throat still hurts a bit. We took it out earlier today, after your infection cleared and you started breathing on your own again. That little lady of yours was so happy when we did that. Being a doctor, she knew that us being able to do that meant you'd turned a corner."

Four days? He'd been unconscious for four days? Woody's head began to spin, and he closed his eyes, willing it to go away, willing himself to stay awake until Jordan came. He had to see for himself. He had seen her arrive at the robbery, shortly after he did.

He had been in emotional turmoil and agony these past couple weeks, knowing that her office was just next door, and seeing her so often. In those weeks after she had refused the friendship ring, he had tried his damnedest to push her to the back of his mind. To make his longing for her only a memory. But his heart hadn't got the message. The gate he'd put on his feelings had broken sometime in these past two weeks. No. Actually, he could pin down the moment. It had happened a couple days after the second robbery. It had been after midnight. He had been in the conference room for hours, since just after noon, alone, while his team ran down leads. Now his team had gone home, but he was still there. He'd been reading through the second ballistics report for the third time when she had suddenly appeared, placing a bottle of water and a chimichanga wrapped in tinfoil in front of him. "You've been here all day. Eat. Please," was all she had said. He'd looked into her eyes, saw the concern, felt himself give a slight nod. She had smiled, her eyes sad, and then gone back to her office. His had watched her the entire way, not quite knowing what was happening. She'd given him one more quick glance through the glass between the rooms, and then left her office to go to trace. The instant she was out of sight, he knew what had happened, and he wanted to slap himself on the forehead. His desire and admiration for Jordan Cavanaugh hadn't faded one bit. He was as much in love with her as ever. He held back, though. Their last real conversation, that day, had made that gap between them wider than ever. And it was partly his own doing. He didn't know how to even start to bridge the gap, but fate bid him wait. The next day, and the days that had followed had swallowed his attention.

And that day, the one four days ago, he had seen her at the scene of the crime. And after the shooting had started, as he was directing the others, he had seen her again, popping up from behind the safety of a police car. His heart had lurched in his chest, and for a half second he forgot to breathe. What the hell was she doing, exposing herself like that? He wanted to run over to her, shake her for being so careless, but his phone had rung; the A/V guys telling him about the Honda. Everything after had happened so quickly, and the last he remembered, Jordan had been running toward him, his vision at a tilted angle. He had wanted to both wrap his arms around her to keep her safe and shake her for coming out onto an active crime scene unprotected. Before he could do either, he had gone numb and everything faded away. He had no idea what had happened after, and so now he wanted, no, needed to know what had happened. If she was okay.

"Ah, there's Tara and Jordan now."

Woody tilted his head to the right and saw her through the window. He watched as Tara helped her into a gown and gloves. Her hair was pulled up into a hasty, messy ponytail. She was wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a Kelly green sweater. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and Tara had one hand on her back, almost leading her forward. She was walking tentatively, slowly, but unimpeded. There were no bandages, no scrapes that he could see. He closed his eyes in relief, and when he opened them again, she was at his bedside, her hand reaching tentatively for his. He smiled. His angel. She was here. "Hi," he whispered.

Her eyes crinkled, filled with tears. Of relief, he hoped. But then, abruptly, she withdrew her hand and brought it to her mouth. "I can't do this," she said softly, turned on her heel and walked quickly from the room, breaking into a run once she was through the door.

Woody's brow furrowed, and he felt his heart constrict. He looked up to Norma for an explanation.

But Norma was looking out the door through which Jordan had just run. Then she looked back at him. "Now that was just downright spooky. I've never seen her act like this. Almost as if she were afraid of you."

Woody looked back toward the door. He closed his eyes, feeling more than physical pain. Nothing had changed.

* * *

**AN: ** Woo hoo! Another chapter! Just one more left, and then the epilogue. And I'll be burning the midnight oil (figuratively speaking) to get them done before the finale. (Since I live in CA, I'll try to make sure they're posted before 9:00 EST, for those on the East coast). Okay, done babbling. 

**AN2:** I know that Woody's Catholic, so I refrained from having him take the lord's name in vain. For the purpose of this story, I choose to have Woody be less orthodox in his religion. Apologies to any who find this offensive in any way.

**AN3:** Yeah, I know the title of the chapter is the same as a certain show that many CJ fans wish the promo monkeys had never gotten their hands on. But the title fit, and so I used it.  



	9. Revelations, Part II

**AN:** Okay, I lied. There will be another chapter before the epilogue. This one was getting too big and I had to split it.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Revelations, Part II**

Ten minutes later, Norma found Jordan in a hallway around the corner, scrunched down against the wall. Jordan wasn't crying, but it looked like she wanted to.

"Honey? What's wrong?"

"I can't do it, Norma. When he was asleep, it was so much easier. He didn't know I was there. I couldn't hurt him by being there. But now… I can't do it. I can't hurt him."

"Jordan, sugar, what do you mean. He wants you there."

"You don't understand." Jordan took a deep breath, and finally looked over to Norma. "We've had this whole song and dance relationship for years. A couple months ago, he said he just wanted to be friends. Just when I was starting to think I might be ready. But he meant it, I could tell. So I backed off. I need to stay away, it's what he wants."

"I don't think that's true."

Jordan looked down at her hands, watching her fingers as she wrung her hands. "What makes you think that?"

"He asked for you."

Jordan looked up. "Really?"

Her expression of doubt almost broke Norma's heart. Then she almost laughed. Jordan said that they had been doing a song and dance for years. Seemed to her that they still hadn't stopped. "Jordan, the first thing he said was your name. He thought you might have been hurt, and I could see how worried he was about you. Didn't you see the relief in his eyes when you came into the room? He was so happy that you were okay."

"I couldn't…I couldn't look…"

Norma rubbed a hand along Jordan's arm. "He was so hurt when you left just now. So I told him what you've been doing these past few days. Worrying, watching over him. I told him how you'd sit by his bed, holding his hand, talking to him, telling him what was happening in the news, and that they'd captured the robbers. Telling stories about work and what people were doing. I told him how you would kiss his forehead and run your hand through his hair when you arrived and before you left. Honey, that boy loves you, whether he's told you or not. And whether you realize it or not."

Jordan was silent. "We're friends. That's all he wants. But it's not enough for me anymore. I can't be just his friend anymore."

Norma sighed. "Sweetie, I wish you could see this all through my eyes… He's weak, and I had to increase the morphine drip now that he's in a conscious state. It put him right back to sleep."

"But he's okay, right?"

The experienced ICU nurse nodded. "Yes. Now that he's fought through the infection and woken up, I'd say it's just a matter of time before he can fully recover… You know, I think he knew you might do this."

"Do what?"

"Run. He said 'If she runs, ask her to go to my apartment and bring me what's in the top drawer of my bedside table.' I didn't understand why he wanted me to tell you that, but I do now. That young man knows you pretty well."

Jordan said nothing. For once, though her instinct was telling her to run, there was another side of her telling her to stay. They were warring inside her. "I don't have a key."

Norma smiled. "From the tales I've hear you tell him, I'd say you're a pretty resourceful girl. I bet you could get in."

Jordan chuckled softly. "Yeah. Actually, Cal's staying there now, while he's in town. But can't Cal bring him what he needs?"

"He was pretty adamant that you do it. I think you should, dear. At the very least, it's what a friend would do, right?"

Jordan looked down. "Right. A friend. Okay. Can you tell him I'll be back tomorrow? I need some time." Time. Time to get there. Time to make a decision. What was more important, what they had said to each other, or what she was feeling?

"Since he's in a much more natural sleep, I'd say he probably sleep through the night and wake up sometime around 6:00 tomorrow morning. But he wakes before then, I'll let him know."

"Thank you." It was only a whisper, but Norma heard much more.

Twenty minutes later, Jordan was driving through the emptied late night streets of Boston to Woody's apartment. She had decided that, despite the late hour, she would get whatever it was Woody needed tonight. If nothing else, it gave her something to do. Anything to avoid what Norma had said, to avoid thinking about it what might mean. Jordan knew she couldn't make it through another round of having her heart broken if it wasn't true or if Woody changed his mind again. In the past, she had gone to work in order to avoid facing her emotions. There, she could simply wait for time to sort things out. She wouldn't have to act; time would resolve everything. But she wasn't scheduled for work. In fact, Garret had told her to take the next week off, at the very least. She had automatically protested, saying that he needed her there. But Garret had emphatically said no. They could deal without her for a week, and right now, she needed to take some time, pull herself together, and deal with what had happened. And for the past four days, she hadn't minded. She wouldn't have been able to focus anyway, and she could now spend her time keeping vigil over Woody. Though the nurses and hospital staff were doing a spectacular job caring for him, something inside her urged her to be as close to him as possible, to assure herself that he was still there.

She parked her car in visitor's parking and took the stairs to Woody's third floor apartment. She knocked, and only then did she remember how late it was, that Cal might be sleeping.

But he wasn't. Since he had arrived the morning after the shooting, Calvin Hoyt had alternated pacing the corridors of the hospital and pacing the hallway of his brother's apartment. He had arrived at the hospital early Friday morning, after a red-eye flight into Boston. One of the nurses had let him to the surgical intensive care unit, and he had looked through the glass at his brother. Jordan had been in there, holding his hand. But around her, he could see the plethora of hospital equipment. IVs, oxygen canisters, machine's monitoring his brother's heart, breathing, organ function. He barely heard the nurse say that they'd let him in as soon as Jordan's ten minutes were up. ICU policy was that only one person could see the patient for ten minutes every hour, but they'd make an exception for him because he'd just gotten here. But a few moments later, after the nurse had taken Woody's temperature, a flurry of nurses and doctors had rushed in, unlocked the wheels on his bed, and whisked him away. Jordan had been ushered out almost immediately. When she saw him, she had rushed up and hugged him. He heard the words infection and surgery as she cried into his chest. Calvin hadn't been able to take it. He'd left the hospital in a rush.

It was only once he hit the sidewalk outside the hospital that he realized that he had no where to go. Woody and Jordan were really the only ties he had here, and they were both back inside the hospital. He'd wandered the streets for almost an hour before remembering that, since the hospital staff had given him Woody's personal effects, he actually had the keys to Woody's apartment. So he had gone there. And been instantly confronted with the memories of his last time there. He'd never seen Woody so angry. His older brother had always been patient. Sure, he raised his voice on occasion, but he'd never shouted like he did that day, or had such a cold look in his eyes. For the first of many times in the days to follow, Calvin wondered if his brother would even want him here.

He spent the next few days going back and forth between the hospital and apartment. After a few hours of restless sleep, he had gone back to the hospital with the intention of seeing his brother. But once he'd gotten there, and looked through the window, and saw his brother lying there, relying on a ventilator to live, Cal had panicked again, and returned to the apartment. But being there, seeing Woody's robot collection, the Kinks poster on the bedroom wall… it made him miss his brother, and he had gone back to the hospital. The process had repeated itself. After the third time, Jordan had asked Nigel to rent a car for him, so he could avoid the taxi fare.

So Calvin Hoyt had been wide awake when Jordan knocked on the door at 10:30 on Monday night.

"Jordan! What are you doing here? What's wrong? Is he okay?" Jordan's appearance outside the hospital and away from his brother alarmed him.

Jordan gave him a small smile, and touched his arm reassuringly as she stepped past him and into the apartment. "He's fine, Cal. Actually, he woke up about half an hour ago."

Cal couldn't help it. He grinned, and let out a deep breath. "That's great! But… how come you're here? I would have thought you'd still be at the hospital."

Jordan bit her lip. "It's… it's… it's just different, now that he's awake."

"Oh, Jordan." Cal put a hand on her shoulder. "I know you love him. You wouldn't have been there all this time if you didn't. And I'm pretty sure he loves you. He'd be an idiot if he didn't."

"He just wants to be friends Cal. That's all I am, that's all I'll ever be."

Cal sighed and shifted his hands to his pockets. "Fine. You're both missing out, though, you know. What brings you here, then?"

"The nurse said Woody wanted me to get something for him."

"What did he want?"

"I don't know." Jordan moved into the bedroom. Though she had only been to his apartment a couple times, she knew where it was. After all, it wasn't hard to find in a small one bedroom apartment. "Just said it was in the top drawer of his bedside table."

Cal nodded and followed her into the room. "Probably his rosary. That's where he's kept it since he was a kid." He pointed to the bedside table.

Jordan went to open the drawer, but it wouldn't open. Seeing no place for a key, she looked back at Cal. "Is there a trick to this drawer or something?"

He frowned. "No. Nothing like that. But I remember it used to be dad's table, and the drawer used to get stuck if you didn't open it for a long time. But it usually took at least a month for that to happen. Hold on, I'll be right back."

While Cal was gone, Jordan sat down on the edge of the bed and couldn't help but stare at the drawer. His rosary was in here? And he hadn't opened it for a month or more? She didn't understand. Woody was a dedicated Catholic, went to mass every Sunday and everything.

Cal returned, butter knife in hand. Kneeling down in front of the table, He slipped it along the cracks on both sides of the drawer, and along the top. Putting the knife down, he gave the drawer a little shake with both hands, and managed to pull it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out the rosary, handing it gently to Jordan.

"Woody's had these for as long as I can remember. Mom gave them to him. I've got my own set in my bag." Cal's voice had a tinge of remembrance, and Jordan couldn't help but feel for both Hoyt boys.

"What happened to her? I know that both your parents are dead, but Woody never went any farther than that."

"She died of leukemia when I was two and Woody was four. I don't remember much about her, but I think Woody does. He never talks about her though. Our dad died when I was fourteen. He was the county Sheriff. He got shot in the back by some kid holding up a liquor store. That's one of the reasons it's so hard for me to see Woody. He looks just like dad did when he was in the hospital before he died."

Cal turned away. After a second, he dropped down onto his haunches and looked back into the drawer. Reaching in again, this time he brought out a worn copy of a bible. "This was her bible," he said, wonderment edging his voice. "I didn't know he still had it." He flipped open the cover. "'Keep your faith, my darling Woodrow, in both the Lord and your family. And trust that the Lord and time will heal all wounds.' She must have given this to him while she was sick."

Jordan didn't know what to say, so she just put an arm around Cal's shoulder, giving him a sideways hug. "Why don't you come with me tomorrow? I know Woody would love to see you."

"You sure? He was pretty pissed at me last time I saw him."

"He's Woody, Cal. Even if he thinks he's still mad at you, he's probably long since forgiven you."

Cal gave a half smile. "You're right. He never could stay mad for long. I think this last time was different though. Things are never going to be the same. But hey, I can tell him all about my new job."

"You got a new job? That's great. What do you do?"

Cal smiled at her. "I moved to Green Bay and got a job with the Coroner's office there.

Jordan laughed. It felt good.

"It's just paper pushing, and it doesn't pay much, but it's a start."

"I'm sure Woody would love to hear that. I'll swing by tomorrow morning about six to pick you up."

"Deal." Calvin put the bible back in the drawer, but frowned when it wouldn't go all the way in. Bending his head back down, he saw a small box in the back of the drawer. He pulled it out, wondering what it was, but then instantly glanced at Jordan when he heard her gasp.

"What is it? What's wrong, Jordan?"

She said nothing, simply reached out and took the box from his fingers. Her own delicate fingers removed the outer box and flipped open the inner one. When Calvin saw what was inside, he whistled.

"Wow. I didn't know you guys were that serious. You never said anything."

Jordan felt her voice crack. "We're not. I mean, that's not what this is." She explained about the ring. About what had happened that day, and all the days after. She ran her fingers over the smooth silver, the glittering diamonds. "Woody said he was going to take it back to the jeweler."

Cal looked over at her. "I think he would have, if he didn't care. He took Annie's back, and that _was_ an engagement ring."

Jordan finally looked away from the ring and up at Calvin. "What?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. He can tell you about that himself. But Jordan, he held onto this ring for a reason. He still cares about you. I think this is what he sent you here to get."

Jordan took a breath and tried to compose herself. "Really, you think?"

"Yeah, I do. And I think you and Woody really need to talk."


	10. Revelations, Part III

**AN: **Well, here it is, the big talk that everyone's been waiting for!

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**Chapter 10: Revelations, Part III**

Jordan and Calvin arrived at the hospital at 6:30 the next morning. Visiting hours technically hadn't started yet, wouldn't for another half hour. But the Boston police officers, who were guarding the reception desk, keeping the still hounding media at bay, recognized her. As did the hospital staff. She had no problem getting up to see Woody.

But when she arrived at his little cubicle, nervousness returned full force. She saw Woody through the window, the nurse doing a morning check on his vital signs. He looked much better this morning. His eyes were all the way open and his chest rose evenly as he breathed easily. She pushed Cal in ahead of her. Told him to take a few minutes alone with his brother.

And when Cal went in to see his brother, Jordan could see through the window that the reunion between the brothers was a joyful one. Cal, unabashedly, had tears flowing down his cheeks, and Woody's eyes threatened to do the same. Cal gave Woody an awkward hug, and then sat down in the chair beside him, already talking.

Jordan smiled, and let herself wander down the hallway, to give them a little more time together. And to figure out what she wanted to say.

A short while later, Cal found her down the hall, strolling past the other rooms on the ward. "Are you ready to see him yet?"

Jordan glanced up at the clock on the wall, and saw that more than twenty minutes had passed. "How did it go?" she asked, purposely avoiding his question.

Cal smiled. "You were right. He forgives me. He also said he won't bail me out anymore, but I told him he wouldn't have to anymore. Last time I was here was kind of a wake up call."

"Well I'm happy for you. For both of you."

Cal looked down at her pointedly. Then he wagged his eyebrows at her. The gesture was so reminiscent of Woody she almost laughed. "What?"

He smiled broadly. "I was right too."

"Right about what."

"Just go talk to him. You'll see."

Jordan rolled her eyes and chucked him on the shoulder. But she knew he was right. It was time for her and Woody to talk. And neither one could run away this time.

When she reached his door, she entered hesitantly, knocking quietly on the doorframe. "Hi." To Woody, her voice was unreadable. He felt his fingers twitching, and realized that he was nervous.

"Hi," he said back to her. To her, his face was equally unreadable.

She didn't say anything until she sat down in the chair Cal had vacated minutes earlier. "How are you feeling?" she eventually asked.

"Sore. But I guess that's expected when you get shot. Norma said that they caught the guys, though."

Jordan nodded. "Yeah. The sniper stayed on the roof that day. That's why there was more shooting. Santana told me that after they arrested the four guys in the car, it wasn't too hard to track down the fifth guy."

"That's good."

Jordan still hadn't looked him directly in the eyes. She was afraid of what she might see. Gratitude? Friendship? Love. That was what she wanted to see, but there were no guarantees, despite what Cal and Norma had said. But it was time to step up to the plate. A few minutes of silence passed. Then she reached out for his hand, which rested at his side a few inches away. Hesitantly, she wrapped her hand around his. He surprised her then. He turned her hand in his and interlaced his fingers with hers.

"Say it, Jordan." His voice was soft, gentle. Not teasing, not accusatory, just there.

"I was so scared," she finally said, looking at their joined hands. "I saw you down, I had to do CPR. I thought I'd lost you."

He squeezed her hand. "You weren't the only one who was scared, Jordan. I saw you. I saw _you_, coming up from behind the police car. I saw you running toward me. It felt like my heart was in my throat."

Silence fell again. Finally, Woody gave gentle tug on her hand. "Did you bring me what I asked you to?"

With her free hand, Jordan reached into her pocket and handed him the rosary. "Cal had to jimmy the drawer open. It's a beautiful rosary."

He accepted the string of beads and put them on the shelf beside his bed. "Thank you. But that's not what I wanted you to bring. Cal said you found the ring."

Jordan nodded. "I can't believe you still had it."

"Me neither. I thought about taking it back, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."

"Why?" She couldn't help but ask. When he didn't answer, Jordan finally looked him in the eyes. Her heart lurched at finally seeing the stunning blue eyes she had missed. Not just for the last four days. Not just for the last two weeks. But for the last few months. There was a joyous shine in his eyes that she hadn't seen since the morning of her birthday.

His smile was a bit sheepish. "I still care about you, Jordan. I still want more than friendship. I tried not wanting that. Tried for months. The only thing I got for my trouble was more misery."

Her heart leapt, but she forced herself to hold back a little longer. "What about what you said, though, Woody. You said we were better off as friends."

He laughed. "You saw how well that line worked when you said it. What makes you think anything different would happen when I said it?"

"Are you really sure Woody? I mean absolutely, positively, without at doubt sure?" She glanced down again. "I don't think I could take it if you weren't."

His long arm reached across his body and touched her hair, which, today, she wore straight down, letting it fall past her shoulders. "Jordan, I'm sure. Absolutely, positively, without a doubt sure. And I know you care. Norma and the other nurses told me how you've been here almost the whole time. You wouldn't do that if you didn't' care at least a little bit."

"I do care, Woody. I care so much. But I'm not sure if I can say those three little words."

"Jordan, I don't care if you ever say them. Just _knowing_ that you love me, just knowing you want me. That's enough. You don't have to say it."

She smiled, joy spreading through her body. She felt the tears of anguish that had been threatening turn to tears of happiness, though only a couple fell down her cheek. Woody reached over with his thumb and wiped them away.

"Don't cry, Jordan. Just be with me. Please."

She looked in his eyes, hoping she could say with them what she didn't know if she'd ever be able to say out loud. She saw his expression change, saw his face light up as he realized what she was saying. She put her other hand on his knee, smiling brightly at him. "You better get up and better soon, Detective. I'm going to have you up and running around in no time. And I'm not speaking figuratively."

He smiled back, but groaned playfully. "You've got a deal, doc. But I want to seal the bargain. Come here." The hand in her hair slipped to the back of her head and gently dragged her down for a kiss. And she let him, smiling as his lips met hers.

This kiss wasn't long, wasn't deep, but it left them both with the promise and longing for more. It was gentle, felt glorious, and reminded them both of what they had to gain in this relationship. And it was cut short but the sounds of whistles and clapping from out in the hallway.

Woody and Jordan broke apart and looked over to the window to see a group of familiar faces looking in and cheering. It seemed as though word of Woody's recovery had spread quickly through both the precinct and the morgue. Cal, Garret, Nigel, Bug, Lily, Santana, Captain Thatcher, Renee Walcott, a handful of Woody's friends from the precinct and some of the nurses and doctors, including Dr. Reece, Norma and Tara. They were all standing at the window, cheering the couple that had finally got it together.

Jordan gently hid her face in Woody's chest. "Oh, God," she groaned.

Woody laughed, and she felt the rumble in his chest. He lifted her head and looked into her eyes, delighted with the blush that was spreading across her cheeks. "Think if we do that again they'll get the point and go away?"

She didn't answer, just leaned in to kiss him again. And this time, when they broke apart, there was silence, the crowd having been dispersed by the hospital personnel. She buried her face in his shoulder, still holding his hand tightly, felt him kiss the top of her head. And in that moment she felt a happiness she didn't think she'd ever be able to feel.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For not giving up on me."

He pulled back a bit, his eyes clouded a bit. "But I did, Jordan. I gave up on us."

"Well, maybe that's what it took. It took almost losing you to finally realize that I never want to let you go."

The light returned to his eyes. "Well, then. I'm not going anywhere."

She kissed him quickly. "Me neither."


	11. Epilogue

**AN: **Gaahhhh! My computer went wonky (to borrow a term from Det. Capra), so this is late. But I hope you all enjoy.

**Epilogue: Memories**

Woody was happy.

He and Jordan had been together for a year and a half.

The first couple days after they had finally admitted their feelings for each other had been easy. They'd spend as much time as they could together, which, after one more day in the ICU, had been more than 10 minutes every hour, since he had been moved to another room. He'd scooted over on the bed and she'd lain beside him.

A few days later, they had their first fight as a couple. He wasn't surprised. There was nothing in their past that had made him even think that their relationship would be smooth. He had wanted to get up and start walking around. She had wanted him to rest for another day or two. The doctor had said it was up to him. They'd argued, and she'd stomped out. While she was gone, he had tried walking by himself. He'd made it as far as the room next door before practically collapsing. She had seen, helped him back to bed. He told her it looked like she was right, he wasn't ready. She said he was right; it was his body and his choice. The argument hadn't been a big one, and he was sure that there would be more in their future. But it had been enough that they both made sure they talked things out. They knew better than most what could happen if you assumed you knew how the other person felt.

After two weeks in the hospital, he'd been discharged, ordered not to return to work for at least another month. He had gone home with Jordan, since she had a spare room. He needed some help for a couple weeks, and it was easier for him to go there than for her to maneuver around his small apartment. Cal had stayed there, for another few days, before flying back home.

Woody and his brother were much closer now. Cal had become his own person, and Woody no longer felt like he had to take responsibility for him. They called or emailed each other regularly now, every week or so. Cal was still working at the Green Bay coroner's office, but taking classes to become a forensic technician. Apparently, the work he'd done with Bug and Nigel years ago had rubbed off on him, and he'd become fascinated by forensics.

He and Jordan had had many other special days together. The day they'd first made love, four months after his release from the hospital. They day they'd moved in together, permanently, which had been three months after that. And the day he'd proposed: May 26, 2006. They had a picnic on the floor of her office. She had to work, but he had wanted to propose on this day specifically.

She had said yes, but only after a stunned silence that had almost caused Woody's heart to stop. They'd kissed, only pulling back when they remembered where they were. When she'd asked if her working had marred his plans for proposing, he had said no. "I decided a couple months ago that I would ask you to marry me today," he told her. "This day was a bad day for us. I wanted to turn it into a happy one.

So they were getting married. On Jordan's birthday. When she had suggested the day, he had teased her.

"Rather celebrate your wedding than your birthday, eh?" he had teased.

"If you must know, yes." She had poked him in the stomach, but then turned serious. "That was a bad day for us, and I want to turn it into a happy one." He didn't know if she knew, but her words echoed his from the day he proposed. He hadn't been able to say anything, so he just kissed her, and made love to her there on the couch where they had been doing the planning.

The wedding was going to be small. His brother and her father (who finally came home six months after the shooting). The family from the precinct, the family from the morgue. Since he had let her set the date, as well as a half dozen other things, she had agreed to get married in the church. Paul was going to officiate.

Woody pulled up to the morgue, smiling as he went inside, greeting Bug and Lily as he passed them in the hall. Life was good, and he was happy. He knocked on Jordan's door. "Hey Jo. Ready for lunch?" He came over to her desk, dropping a kiss on her temple before leaning over her shoulder to see what she was working on. The form didn't look familiar, so he asked, "What's this?"

"I'm filling out a form for family leave in July."

He stood up. "Why, are we going to visit Cal in July?"

"Nope. But I'll need to take some time off."

"Why? You're not planning on us taking cruise or something, are you? You know how I get seasick."

She stood and looked him in the eye. "Wrong again. The baby's due in July."

He froze. "Baby. Wait, you mean -"

She nodded. "You might want to request some time off too. Being the doting father that I know you'll be, you'll want to stay home with me for a couple weeks."

He let out a whoop and grinned broadly. Then, sweeping her off her feet, he twirled her around the room, delighting in her sparkling laughter.

Oh yes. Life was good. And he was happy.

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**AN(last one, I promise): **Aww, I'm sad now. All finished. I'll just have to content myself with writing more fics. But for now, I'm going to go watch the finale. I hope you all enjoyed this story! 


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